


Ash

by okapi



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Consumption of Ashes, Contemplation of Self-Harm, Dark, F/F, Fem!John - Freeform, Fem!Lestrade, Fem!Sherlock, Femslash, Genderswap, Grief/Mourning, Male!Mrs. Hudson - Freeform, Post-Reichenbach, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-22
Updated: 2014-05-22
Packaged: 2018-01-26 03:11:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1672562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/okapi/pseuds/okapi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After her death, John drinks Sherlock's ashes in her tea. Genderswapped. Dark grief fic. Please heed the tags for potential triggers.</p><p>Inspired by the graphic novel/global manga <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/12_Days">12 Days</a> by June Kim.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ash

**Day 0**

“You have her!”

“You have her scarf and her coat and her shoes! You have her body and her hair!” Her voice broke on the last word. “And maybe it’s right that you have her. In the end. Because you loved her, and she used you. Maybe it’s right. That you have her. But—so help me God—you will give me a piece of her! _Or I will rip your flesh from the bone!_ ”

She was frightening Molly, she was embarrassing herself, she was making anyone within earshot extremely uncomfortable.

But she didn’t care.

Let them see her grief, like a wound, infected, festering, putrid. _Septic_ , meaning systemic, everywhere and _lethal_.

Let them know that _this_ was how she loved her. _Blind. Feral._

She lunged at the girl, snarling with curled lips and flashing canines. In that moment, she had never felt—not even when she had been under Sherlock, neck bared for biting and rump arched for mounting—more like the Alpha mate that she was.

Molly cowered.

Lestrade grabbed her and kept yelling a word. Over and over. A word that should mean something to her.

But it didn’t.

**Day 01**

She sat, barefooted, staring at the empty chair. How long, she wasn’t sure. Her cloudy reverie was interrupted by a voice and the sound of slow footsteps on the stairs.

“Love? Some nibbles, cold meats, and whatnot,” said Mr. Hudson. “And this came for you.” He sat the box down on the kitchen table. She got up and took the tray from him and put it in the refrigerator.

_No experiments. Sherlock had cleaned it out before she left._

“Thank you.”

He embraced her, and she stiffened, but patted him on the back.

“Please eat, love.”

_Nagging me to eat? We are most assuredly through the looking glass, Alice._

She made non-committal noises and ignored the concerned looks thrown her way. Eventually, the footsteps traveled back down the stairs.

She opened the package and lifted the urn.

She set it down quickly on the table.

_This is Sherlock._

She stared. And stared.

Then, she sat down at the table and pushed it to the other side.

“Hullo, love,” she said. “How was your day?”

She bowed her head and cried.

 

Six little clouds of tissues were scattered under her chair. She wiped her eyes for the last time and said, “Would you like a cuppa?”

She got up and made tea.

She turned back sharply as the kettle began to hiss.

The urn wasn’t a tea tin, but it bore a very strong resemblance to their— _her? the?_ —tea tin.

She left the second mug on the counter and sat down again at the table with her tea.

_I miss you._

The phrase seemed so trite, so weak, so inadequate for what she felt, as if Sherlock were a bus pulling away from a stop or a ball swerving from a goal.

 _Miss_.

She didn’t miss Sherlock.

She _ached_ for her. _Visceral. Corporal. Painful._

Even that word seemed insufficient, but it was the best she could manage. Her vocabulary seemed to have shrunk.

She sipped her tea. It was boiling and bitter. It burnt her tongue.

_Good._

Solace was to be found nowhere. Not even in tea. Not even in the little ritual that had been the cornerstone of who she was in the Baker Street flat.

_Was, not is. Had been. Never will be again._

Verb tenses were tricky. That’s why her Spanish was so foul. And her Arabic worse.

She stood up and lifted the top of the urn and looked inside.

_Grey ash._

How anti-climactic!

This is Sherlock. _Her_ Sherlock. This grey ash.

Not all of her, of course, she knew how much ash a human body produced in its cremation, and this was a fraction. But she had told Molly a piece of her, and a piece she had been given.

Looked like powder. Like tea. No, like sugar.

She dipped her spoon in the ash and dropped a heap into her cup.

And stirred. And drank it. Without pause.

Like a whiskey chaser.

 

She abandoned the cup and the spoon and the urn and went to sit in her chair.

Sherlock was _in_ her.

Most of Sherlock would be excreted—grief had not wiped out her entire understanding of the human organism—in urine, in feces, perhaps even in perspiration. Sherlock might ooze from her pores. Though much would be lost, a small part of Sherlock would remain. In her blood, in her tissue. It would disturb the balance of her body, causing chain reactions. Her body would respond to Sherlock, shift to accommodate her, as always.

_Comfort._

_Finally._

**Day 02**

She moved from sofa to chair to kitchen chair. Drinking cups of tea with Sherlock. And staring at nothing.

**Day 03**

“Hello, love. Haven’t heard from you so I am going to come by and check on you today. Let me know if you need anything.”

She hadn’t heard the telephone ring, but the message startled her into action. She wasn’t sure how much time she had, so she moved efficiently. As with the doctor, grief had not erased the soldier completely. Cursory tidying of the flat—and hiding Sherlock next to the tea tin. Shower and change of clothes.

_Healthy coping mechanisms…healthy coping mechanisms…_

She looked around the flat and then plundered the closets. She found a old set of watercolours and other art supplies and set them up, splashing some dark blue— _for Sherlock!_ —on the canvas.

_Art therapy! Very healthy!_

She found an old leather-bound notebook. And put it on display with some pens.

_Journaling! Also very healthy! Not the blog, but no one would expect that._

Then, she got a couple of boxes and carefully started to pack some of Sherlock’s scientific equipment. Test tubes, beakers, flasks.

_See, I’m fine! Moving on!_

Lestrade came up the stairs.

_Is this how you hug? Arms out, soldier!_

“How are you? Stupid question.”

“I’m okay.” Lestrade looked around the room, nodding, then she moved to the kitchen. “Tea?” She had her hand on the cupboard.

“No!”

Lestrade stopped and stared.

_Not Good. Not Good._

“I’ve had enough tea to float an armada. How about some…lemonade?” She looked at the clock. _Jesus Christ! What day was it?_   “And sandwiches?”

“Okay.” Lestrade sat. In Sherlock’s seat. Bile rose in her throat.

 _Sandwiches. Sandwiches._ She brought out the tray from the refrigerator. _Plates. How does one make a sandwich? What goes first? Cheese. No, stupid. Bread, then cheese, then meat. Then, tomatoes—no, wait, Greg doesn’t like tomatoes—then lettuce. Then, bread. Yes, sandwich!_

So pleased was she with her triumph, that she let a fake smile cross her face.

Lestrade frowned, “Aren’t you going to have one?”

_Shit! Ok. Jesus. I have to do it again. How does it go?_

She managed another sandwich and poured the lemonade and sat down with her friend. They ate in silence.

She remembered to chew and swallow. The food felt slimy and slick in her mouth.

_How would this silliness provide any nourishment for her? There was no Sherlock in it!_

“You took my gun.”

Lestrade blushed. “I had it taken. While we were at the service. Last conversation that Mycroft and I had.”

She hid a flash of smile behind the sandwich. Not at her friend’s pain, of course. But at the gift she had been given. At the multi-headed distraction. _People are more selfish than they are curious._ Sherlock hadn’t needed to teach her that, but their time with witnesses and suspects had confirmed it again and again. _Just get the ball rolling and she will forget all about you_ …

“Oh, love, I’m sorry. I’ve been so caught up in my own grief. You’re hurting, too,” she reached out and put her hand over Lestrade’s, “What happened with Mycroft? And with the job?”

“Well, I was put on administrative leave until…”

She listened to the cadence of Lestrade’s words. She squeezed the hand under hers and interjected where appropriate: exclamations and sighs and defensive grunts.

“I’m amazed at how you’re coping! God, better than I am,” said Lestrade. “Listen, while I am on leave, I’m going to stop by every day…”

_No! No! No!_

“Actually, I’m leaving town for a little while. Change of scenery and all.”

“Really, where?”

_Where? Where? Where?_

“Walking tour of the West Country.”

“How [Harriet Vane](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Harriet_Vane) of you.”

“Yes,” she smiled, “maybe I’ll find a little adventure to distract me.”

“I can come with you. I’ve nothing on…”

“No!” _Was that too loud? A little too loud._ “I mean, I think it’s something I need to do on my own. To find closure.”

_Good. Use a grief word._

“Oh. Okay. How long will you be gone?”

“A week, maybe ten days.”

“You’ll keep in touch?”

“Promise.”

_Is this how you make a smile?_

When she heard the front door close, she slumped on the sofa and groaned.

“ _Sherlock!_ ”

**Day 06**

She startled awake, sweating.

Night terror. Day terror. Did it matter?

_She had forgotten Sherlock’s voice!_

_She had to find it!_

She tumbled downstairs. She scrambled to find her mobile. Nowhere. She pulled up cushions and threw down books from the bookcase.

_Where was it?_

Nevermind. She found Sherlock’s computer. She turned it on and waited.

And waited. And waited.

_Sherlock had stripped it clean. Of course, she had._

She went to her own computer. She turned it on. Still photos, but no video. No voice.

She keened.

She’d lost Sherlock’s voice! Her beautiful voice. The one that rumbled. And whined. And teased. And laughed. And said her name— _What was her name?_ —just-so. Maybe she could get it back if she made a cup of tea. With Sherlock. Of course, there was no tea without Sherlock.

She plopped a spoonful of ash in the brown liquid. And stirred. And sipped. And sighed.

**Day 07**

_Her scent!_

She couldn’t lose Sherlock’s scent the way she’d lost her voice. With her blood pounding in her ears, she pushed open Sherlock’s bedroom door.

She pulled a blouse off the hanger and smelled it.

_Sherlock!_

With frenzied hands, she pulled garments off hangers, breathed in, and tossed them on Sherlock’s bed.

She left the purple blouse. It was the sole survivor of her onslaught, hanging in the middle of the closet. She buttoned the blouse and rolled up the sleeves and left it where she could see it.

_Where it could see her._

Then, she crawled onto Sherlock’s bed and nestled herself among the clothes. And slept.

**Day 07**

She woke up _wanting_. She was in that delicious limbo between sleeping and waking. She would set up residence there. Sherlock was all around her. She reached out for firm flesh, but found soft ether. She tried to mount something, which became nothing. Frustration pushed her awake.

Then, she remembered _everything_. The images crashed into her brain at once and filled her with dread.

She sat up, looking at the nest she’d made of Sherlock’s clothes. And the purple blouse watching her. She looked at the juncture of her legs.

She never wanted to _want_ again. She never wanted to _feel_ again.

Her mate was dead; she would not feel. Ever. Again.

She searched for the first aid kit. And because this is 221B Baker Street, ‘first aid kit’ is a bit of a misnomer; it was equipped like a field hospital.

She sat on the toilet, with scalpel in hand, staring at her crotch. She would cut it off. Like de-boning a fish, she would make a couple of careful incisions and yank the whole feeling part of her body, from brain to genitalia, out. Nerve endings quivering like tentacles. She would remove them all until there were no synapses to fire. No gaps to jump. Amputate. She took a deep breath.

She might make a mistake. She might bleed too much. Mr. Hudson might find her. Or Lestrade. Then she’d go to the A & E and then her story would end up in black and white in a medical summary—Lord, how many of _those_ had she read? Doctors and nurses and technicians would say quietly—and sometimes not so quietly— _She did what? To herself?_ A gallows humor joke, a shudder. A ‘you’re not going to believe this’ for the oncoming shift. _Who would do that?_

_The same woman who would drink her lover’s ashes in her tea._

The scalpel clinked on the tile floor. She left it where it fell and went to make tea.

**Day 09**

She talked to the urn. Strung together words that may or may not have been sentences. Subject. Verb. Subject. Verb.

And she saw Sherlock, of course. Out of the corner of her eye, fleeing a room as she entered it. Hovering just out of her line of sight. Rustling in the window dressing. A spectre in a long dark coat and blue scarf.

So many cups of tea, Sherlock was permanently _in_ her, altering the rods and cones of her vision.

_Naturally._

**Day 09**

The tea tin was empty. She boiled water and drank Sherlock straight.

**Day 10**

She washed her face. The cold water felt good. She opened the medicine cabinet and looked at the bottles and jars. Sherlock’s lotions and potions.

Why were none of the labels in English? What was that? _Hebrew?_ Some kind of hieroglyphics—or what was older? Cuneiform. Leave it to Sherlock to mail-order her beauty supplies from [Uruk](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Uruk).

**Day 11**

She said into the darkness.

_“You aren’t real. You’re a figment of my imagination. A character that I created. A beautiful, brilliant heroine. Someone for me to follow because no one in my life could be arsed to lead. Adventure, excitement, danger. Fabrications to ease the monotony of daily life. To make the chore of inhaling and exhaling more palatable. That’s all. None of this exists.”_

**Day 12**

Sherlock was there again. On the periphery of her vision.

“Care for a cuppa?” She stirred her mug. And laughed and laughed and laughed.

The spectre did not laugh.

“Blah.”

“Blah.”

Sherlock kept saying a word. That word. She tried to echo her, rounding her lips and getting her too-fat tongue out of the way.

“Bleh.”

“Bleh.”

“I did it to keep you safe.”

“Then you’re an idiot. There is no ‘safe’ without you.”

“We will be reunited. Reconciled.” The last word sounded feeble, hesitant.

“On the last day?”

“Sooner than that, I hope.” She felt Sherlock’s smile. Like a solar flare. Her head tilted at the blast of warmth.

“Your voice. I lost it.”

Sherlock made a gesture.

She looked in the urn. Her mobile.

“I didn’t put it there.”

“No.”

“How is it? Where you are?”

“Horrid.”

“Is there something I can do? Indulgences? Do they work?”

“Live.”

She bowed her head. And closed her eyes.

“You ask too much,” she said in a low voice.

“Nevertheless, I _am_ asking.”

There was the slightest, faintest, most whispered caress against her head.

Then, she felt something warm wrap around her throat.

_Maybe this is how it ends. Not with pain. Or a bright light. But with warmth._

_Like the first sip of tea on a cold day._

When she opened her eyes, the urn was gone. She touched her neck and, with a start, felt the cashmere. The soft texture was more familiar than her own skin. She buried her face in it.

“ _Sherlock_.”

And the threads whispered back, as the ashes never had.

“ _John_.”


End file.
